


Symbolic Activities

by mattygroves



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: AU Apollo 11, M/M, do you have a flag?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-16
Updated: 2016-08-16
Packaged: 2018-08-09 04:35:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7786978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mattygroves/pseuds/mattygroves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Apparently they can’t decide whether to plant one big American flag or a bunch of tiny ones representing all the countries on earth,” said the little bespectacled Czech scientist who had recently defected and was a bit of a gossip.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Symbolic Activities

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Going Steady](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3565772) by [ami_ven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ami_ven/pseuds/ami_ven). 



_Johnson Space Center_

_“Space City,” Texas_

 

 **February 1969**  

 

“Apparently they can’t decide whether to plant one big American flag or a bunch of tiny ones representing all the countries on earth,” said the little bespectacled Czech scientist who had recently defected and was a bit of a gossip. 

 

“I don’t care,” Rodney said, not turning from his chalkboard, “They can hang my boxer shorts, without wind it’s not going to fly.”

 

Radek frowned. “That’s true. I wonder if they have thought of that?”

 

 “Give them a couple months, they’ll get there,” Rodney muttered.

 

***

 

“Anyone sitting here?”

 

Rodney looked up from the journal he was reading to see spiky hair and eyes that couldn’t decide if they were green or hazel. He had flyboy written over all over his face, and the wings pinned to his lapel readily confirmed Rodney’s immediate hypothesis.

 

“Why?”

 

“Because I’m hungry and you have an empty table,” the man smirked. Rodney waved a hand indicating the other man could sit if he wanted but Rodney wasn’t particularly invested.

 

“It’s a free country,” Rodney said. “As they keep telling me.”

 

“You’re Dr. Rodey McKay,” pointy hair said, gliding onto the metal bench across from him. “Major John Sheppard. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

 

“All lies,” Rodney said, still reading.

 

“And I read your theoretical paper about inertial dampening on manned spacecraft. Pretty interesting stuff.”

 

Rodney gaped at him. “You read that?”

 

“Yeah. Kind of takes the fun out flying, though, doesn’t it?” Sheppard mused. “I mean, how do I know I’m having a good time if I’m not on the verge of passing out from excessive gravity?”

 

Rodney snorted. “You test pilots are all the same. I work my ass off trying to keep you alive while you’d happily die for the thrill of it.”

 

“I’ll try anything once,” he purred in reply. Rodney was terrible at recognizing flirting, but he turned red anyway.

 

**April 1969**

 

“They figured it out,” Radek said as Rodney poured himself his fourth—no fifth—cup of afternoon coffee.

 

“What?”

 

“No wind, no flag.”

 

“Took them longer than I thought,” Rodney muttered, “If I didn’t already know Sheppard had a death wish, I’d be surprised that he’s willing to put his life in their hands.”

 

“Would you like to place bets on how long it takes them to fit a flagpole in the module?” Radek asked with a gleam in his eye.

 

“You’re on.”

 

***

 

In the end, they both lost the bet, because there was no way to fit a flagpole in the Apollo 11 Lunar Module. Richard Woolsey, Director of the Manned Spacecraft Center, called Rodney into his office later that month.

 

“Ah, yes, Dr. McKay, sit down,” he said, glancing up from a Close Call form ( _Close Call: an event in which there is no injury or only minor injury requiring first aid and/or no equipment/property damage or minor equipment/property damage—less than $1000—but which possesses a potential to cause a mishap_ ).

 

Rodney turned his head to try and see the name at the top, but he didn’t need three guesses to know Sheppard was involved somehow. The man attracted danger like he attracted Southern Belles whenever he and Rodney were just trying to have a quiet beer on a Friday night.

 

“I’m putting you on the Lunar Flag Assembly Project,” Woolsey said as he stamped the form in three places.

 

“What?” he squawked, “No. No, no, no. _No_. I have a million more important things to do, like, I don’t know, keep your goddamned astronauts _alive_.”

 

“You’re the best we’ve got, and we need that flag to make it the moon in one piece, preferably not incinerated,” Woolsey said sternly.

 

“Whose preference?” Rodney narrowed his eyes.

 

“Now Rodney, I don’t need to remind you of this mission’s importance to the entire human race. The Committee for Symbolic Activities feels we would be remiss if we did not do everything within our power to commemorate the event in an appropriate manner that reflects the dignity and unity of all mankind.”

 

“With the American flag,” Rodney deadpanned. The irony was lost on Woolsey.

 

“Yes, exactly.”

 

“I’m _Canadian_!” Rodney yelled and stormed out of the office with a really satisfying slam. Sheppard was in the waiting room, slouched in a chair, covered in engine grease and minor abrasions. He raised an eyebrow when Rodney barreled out of the office.

 

“He’s all yours,” Rodney said, still using his outside voice.

 

“That’s a pretty tough act to follow,” John only winced a little when he eased out of his chair.

 

“Are we still on for dinner?” Rodney asked—suddenly unsure—his voice soft. He was painfully aware of the receptionist glaring at him over her cat-eye glasses.

 

“Yeah,” John said, a little breathy from the effort, “Why don’t you just come to my place and we’ll order some takeout. I’m pretty beat.”

 

“Right, sure. Um, feel better. I guess.”

 

John grinned and gave him a sloppy salute.

 

**June 1969**

 

In the end, Rodney fixed the problem with the Lunar Flag Assembly.

 

“Of course the kit’s going to melt at three hundred degrees Fahrenheit, you utter morons! You’re attaching it to the outside of a spacecraft. That goes—would you believe it?—in _space_. It has to withstand upwards of two thousand degrees from the engines, and oh I don’t know, stay attached at 7 miles per _second_. Did they not teach you anything at MIT?”

 

He only made three scientists cry and two quit (one bought a farm, leading to a rumor that McKay had killed him—John swears he didn’t start it). Katherine Johnson started walking by the Technical Services Division on her way to lunch with an amused gleam in her eye, even though Guidance and Navigation was in another building entirely.

 

“Yeah, but McKay,” Sheppard said one day, casually leaning against the wall in Rodney’s lab like he didn’t have better things to do—like, oh, preparing to launch into space in a month and half.

 

“What?” Rodney snapped.

 

“How are we gonna jimmy that thing out and put it together with our hands in oven mitts?”

 

“What are you talking about?” the disdain dripped from his voice.

 

“Pressure suits.”

 

“Oh Christ on sliced bread, you have got to be kidding me.”

 

John just shook his head in mock sadness. Rodney had the last laugh, though, as John and the other two astronauts had to practice taking the kit off of the mock-up lunar module and assembling it under forty feet of water for the next month.

 

**July 1969**

“Hey, Rodney, I’ve kind of got to ask you something,” John said one evening over pizza and beer in Rodney’s cramped Houston apartment. He pulled something out his breast pocket and tossed it across the table. The bronze hexagonal medal glinted in the overhead light. Rodney wiped his hands on a paper napkin and picked it up gingerly by its gold and navy ribbon.

 

“This is your Commendation Medal,” Rodney said though a mouth full of pizza.

 

“Yeah, I wondering,” John scratched the back of his neck, “If you would sort of hold on to it for me. For luck.”

 

Rodney stared at him, then back at the medal in his hand, “Does this mean we’re going steady?”

 

“Yeah, it does. If you want.”

 

“I want.”

 

“Cool. That’s boss.”

 

**July 20, 1969**

It went surprisingly smoothly, and Rodney only had to yell a little at the minions in charge fuel calculations. After tense moments and about million people in Mission Control saying, “Go,” over and over again, the module touched down and (after the world sat on the edge of it’s seat while the astronauts had a _snack_ ) the one astronaut whose name Rodney could never remember said something like, “One small step for me, a really big step for mankind,”—Rodney wasn’t really paying attention in the anticipation of soon seeing John on the live feed. A committee probably wrote the speech, anyway.

 

Radek clapped him on the back with a smirk, and Rodney managed to hold back his sarcastic comments as the three on the moon bounced around and fumbled with the flag that was technically more of curtain. At least it hadn’t burned on entry. John got to be the third man on the moon, and Rodney had to bite back his enthusiastic “That’s my boyfriend on the _moon_!” since he didn’t fancy getting fired or thrown in a mental institution.

 

Four days later John was home, and a little while after that he was throwing up in Rodney’s toilet, and a little while after that he was dozing in Rodney’s arms in Rodney’s bedroom in Rodney’s bed. And Rodney had never been happier.

**Author's Note:**

> Took a break from a longer Star Trek fic I've been working on to write this little moment in history. I've been reading the hilarious and wonderful book "Packing for Mars" by Mary Roach, which 100% inspired this story about the Lunar flag--which is not so much a flag as a "diminutive patriotic curtain" in her words :D
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it, kudos and comments always appreciated!
> 
> Oh, and I added an "inspired by" tag because I realized some of my use of period typical slang was definitely inspired by that adorable story. Read it, it's one of my absolute favorites!


End file.
